When the last priest had droned past, Gertie crawled out of the woods and up the treeless slope on her belly. Pausing at the bottom of the stone stairs, she fixed her unblinking gaze on her quarry. Two men guarded the temple entrance. Torches flared on the landing and on either side of the ornate double doors. The wind shifted and Gertie wrinkled her nose. The humans stank of leather and sweat and the smaller one reeked of garlic. She crept closer, her body blending into her surroundings.
Shifting their weapons, the guards peered into the darkness.
Nervous as a lamb at a wolf’s wedding, Gertie thought with an inward chuckle. They sensed the danger, though they couldn’t see her. Trolls had a talent for camouflage.
At the top of the wide stone steps she tensed her hindquarters and sprang at one of the guards, slashing his throat with her claws. He slumped to the pavement with a gurgling cry. The other man whipped around at the noise, his eyes widening when he saw the crumpled figure lying in a pool of blood.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
His question ended in a shriek as Gertie lifted him into the air and fastened her jaws around his throat. The hot, sweet taste of blood filled her mouth. When the man ceased to twitch in her arms, she tossed the body aside and shed her disguise. Her muzzle and claws were wet with blood and the light from the torches threw her hulking shadow against the temple wall. Stepping over the dead man without a backward glance, she stalked across the landing to the temple doors.
Mauric slid out of the darkness, a bloody knife in one hand. As he was human and could not cloak himself in the manner of trolls, he’d disguised himself with black garb. His pale skin was smeared with dark paint, and a black cloth covered his pale locks.
He cleaned his knife and slid it back in his boot. “What took you so long? You’re slowing down.”
“Don’t start with me. I shouldn’t have let you come. It’s far too dangerous.”
The warrior’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the fun of it. In any event, you couldn’t have stopped me.”
Gertie glared at him in annoyance. The young devil was enjoying this. They were deep in enemy territory with plans to kidnap the Dark Wizard’s ward, and he acted like it was a lark. She glanced around, her predatory instincts jangling from adrenaline. Glonoff and his soldiers were camped a short distance from the temple. Hara and her attendants were alone inside . . . now that the guards had been disposed of. It was now or never.
“The moons are on the rise,” Gertie said. “We’re wasting time. We do not want to be here when Magog wakes up.”
She stalked inside and looked around. Few outsiders saw the secret confines of one of Magog’s temples, unless they were being sacrificed on the altar. The shrine was vast, the ceiling lost in darkness. Fire danced in golden braziers, their flames casting flickering shadow monsters on the vast columns. On a dais in the center of the temple a gigantic statue of Magog was enthroned. Padding closer, Gertie studied the god’s features. He was as she remembered, golden and beautiful by human standards, but cruel. A blue sapphire the size of a man’s fist gleamed in one eye; the other socket yawned dark and empty.
Hara Bel-a-Zhezar slept on the god’s stone lap, her head resting on a satin pillow. Her long black hair poured past her creamy shoulders and spilled over the edge of the stone table. The filmy gown she wore displayed her magnificent body to advantage. Tight at the waist and sleeveless, the garment exposed her round white arms and shapely legs. Her full breasts strained against the sheer cloth. Her face was flawless, with high cheekbones and a perfect nose. Long, sooty eyelashes rested in half circles on her flushed cheeks. Her full lips were parted, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. Today was her twenty-fifth birthday and her wedding day. She’d been promised to Magog, the mad god of Shad Amar, since birth. She was supposed to have married him at eighteen, but Magog had succumbed to one of his periodic bouts of madness, and the wedding had been postponed. Tales of Hara’s rage and disappointment at the delay had leaked past the borders of Shad Amar: precious gifts to mark the ceremony destroyed, wedding garments ripped to shreds or burned, and servants slain. Her parents gutted on the altar, or so people whispered.
Her temper tantrum had been for naught. No one disturbed the god of Shad Amar’s darkness, not even Glonoff.
Seven years had passed and Magog’s lunacy had receded. He was to appear in the temple at midnight to claim his bride. Tonight, Hara would come into her power, or so those squawkers in the Tower of Seers claimed. Gertie didn’t set much store by the seers or their mumblings, especially as the talisman Hara was fated to wield—according to prophecy—had been safely ensconced in the Hall of the Gods for thousands of years. Then, two weeks earlier, she’d received disturbing news. The Eye had been stolen. The thief’s identity was unknown, but Gertie was certain that Glonoff had stolen the Eye. His lust for power was well-known. With Hara and the Eye at his command, he would be unstoppable, satisfied with nothing less than control of all of Tandara.
Gertie had never been one to sit by and do nothing, and she’d concocted a schemed of breathtaking simplicity. She would sneak across the mountains into Shad Amar, enter the temple, and snatch Hara from under the Dark Wizard’s nose. The trick would be to make a clean getaway. The thought of being caught by the Dark Wizard or his insane god made her insides shrivel. Still, Glonoff must be thwarted, no matter the risk, and removing Hara seemed the best way to do it.
So what if he has the Eye? Let him try to wield it without his precious ward, Gertie thought with dark amusement. He’ll be reduced to ashes.
A dozen handmaidens slept at the god’s chiseled feet. Gertie bent over the limp form of one of the attendants, her nose twitching at an acrid scent.
“Black gurshee.” She hawked to rid her mouth of the bitter taste. “Glonoff’s drugged Hara and her servants. Finn’s Horn wouldn’t wake them now.”
Noticing the young warrior’s uncharacteristic silence, she glanced back and found him staring at the altar with a dumbfounded expression.
“Gods. Look at her.” His throat worked. “She’s gorgeous.”
“Huh.” Gertie spat again. “Pretty is as pretty does.”
A servant girl moaned and turned her head. Gertie swore softly. There were empty holes where the girl’s nose had been.
Mauric drew his knife. “What is it?”
“The servant. She’s been mutilated.”
“Glonoff?”
Gertie shook her head. “Nay, it was Hara, I suspect. There have been rumors of her savagery, but I gave them little credit.” She grimaced. “Until now.”
“Hara did this? But why? She’s beautiful.”
“Insecurity. Malice.” Gertie shrugged. “Or maybe she enjoys cutting people.”
Mauric expression tightened with disgust. He gripped his knife. “Let’s do this and get out of here.”
They were halfway up the dais steps when Hara stirred.
Mauric shot Gertie a look of reproach. “I thought you said Finn’s Horn wouldn’t wake her.”
“I was mistaken. It happens upon occasion.”
Hara sat up and stretched, her movements lithe and sensual, her dark hair rippling in a silky cascade down her slender back.
Her eyes widened when she spotted them on the stairs. Opening her mouth, she let out a banshee screech that echoed around the temple. The statue of Magog stirred in response, and the temple walls shook and a pillar groaned and toppled to the floor.
Mauric struggled to keep his balance on the crumbling steps. “What’s happening?”
“Magog’s awake,” Gertie shouted. “Forget the girl. Run.”
Ducking falling stones, they raced outside and down the stairway carved into the face of the tor. The earth groaned beneath their feet like a restive animal, and Mauric stumbled and went down on the quaking hill.
Gertie loped up to him on all fours. “Four paws are better than two. Climb on, boy
,” she ordered. “Now.”
Mauric scrambled onto her back and held on. When they reached the cover of the forest, he slid off her and stood up. The pitched roof of the temple burst open and Magog thrust his head and shoulders out of the ruin. His blue eye blazed and a penetrating beam of light swept the temple hill and the woods beyond.
“Down,” Gertie said, knocking Mauric’s legs from under him with a swipe of her paw. He hit the ground with a startled grunt as the questing light paused at the edge of the trees where they were hidden, and moved on.
“Tro,” Mauric said, breathing a sigh of relief. “That was close.”
“He’s groggy. Drunk on blood offerings, or we’d be done for.” Gertie pointed to a towering plume of smoke on the horizon. “See that thunderhead? That’s Glonoff. He’s headed this way, and he’s not happy. Trust me. We do not want to be here when he arrives.”
“One of these days, you’re going to tell me the reason there’s bad blood between you and Glonoff.” He grinned. “And it will annoy Raven to no end that you told me first.”
Gertie gave him a sideways glance. “My business with the Dark Wizard is my own, and you shouldn’t plague your cousin.”
“Why? He makes it easy.”
“Enough of your cheek, boy. Fetch your horse.”
Mauric disappeared into the trees. He returned a few moments later with his black stallion.
“Better hold him,” Gertie warned. “Horses and trolls don’t mix.”
“Goblin won’t startle. He knows he’s safe with me.”
Gertie grunted and led the way. They skirted the edge of the forest until the temple was well behind them. Once it was safe, Mauric mounted and they left the shelter of the trees, setting a brutal pace across the low hills and grasslands of Shad Amar. Pausing at the top of a hillock, Gertie rose on her hind legs and sniffed the night air. The green scent of fir and the sweet, dusty smell of dry grass tickled her senses, but there was no sign of pursuit.
She had failed to wrest Hara from Glonoff, but on the bright side, she and Mauric had escaped with their lives. All things considered, no small cause for celebration. The Rowan would not be happy if she’d gotten his favorite nephew killed. She’d tried to dissuade Mauric, but the young hothead had insisted on coming, trailing after her like a blasted hound. She scowled. Kron take it, she was fond of the boy, too. The Rowan should damn well know she’d protect Mauric with her life.
Satisfied that Glonoff was not on their heels, Gertie loped through the grass and caught up with Mauric.
Near dawn, they stopped to rest in a glade at the foot of the Black Mountains. A wall of ancient firs enclosed the peaceful clearing, sheltering them from the wind. In the center of the space was an altar. The pitted gray stone, though worn by time and the elements, was clean and unstained by blood. No bones littered the clearing. A stream danced down the mountainside at one end of the gorge, ending in a double waterfall that sent puffs of mist into the air.
Mauric tended to his horse before striding to the rocky pool to bathe. Licking one paw, Gertie watched him strip off his shirt and wash the dark paint from his face, bulging arms, and muscular torso.
When he was clean, he rose to his feet and shook, spraying her with the icy droplets.
“You’re worse than a dog,” she complained.
Still worrying at her sore paw, she closed her eyes and tested the morning breeze. The spray from the waterfalls gave the air a greenish, underwater quality that made her nose quiver.
“Stop licking that paw or it will fester.”
Gertie opened her eyes to find Mauric standing over her. “Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s bad luck to sneak up on a troll?”
“Hah, as if anyone could sneak up on you. Let me have a look at that cut.”
Reluctantly, Gertie held out her paw. “It’s not bad. I stepped on a stone a few leagues back.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, mor.”
Gertie blinked, touched by his use of the Trolk word for mother.
Mauric cleaned the ragged tear and began to rub unguent on it from one of his saddle bags.
At the first sting, Gertie yelped and jerked her paw away. “Ouch, that hurts.”
“Don’t be such a baby.” Taking her paw again, Mauric finished dressing the wound with salve. “It’s your recipe. Horse manure and lard mixed with honey for healing.” Satisfied with his work, he got to his feet and stretched. “What is this place, one of Magog’s altars?”
“Certainly not.” Gertie removed a shapeless robe from one of the packs and tugged it over her head. “This was once a shrine to Xantheus.”
Mauric whistled. “The slain god?”
“None other.” Gertie shoved her hind paws into a pair of worn boots, wincing at a stab of pain from her injured foot. “Some say guilt over his twin’s death drove Magog mad. At any rate, Magog avoids such places like the plague. We should be safe here for the time being.”
“What about Glonoff? Do you think he knows we were in the temple?”
“Of course he knows. He’s a wizard.”
“And you shed.”
“I may have left a few clumps of fur lying around accidentally on purpose.”
“Knowing it would pucker the Dark Wizard’s arse?”
She grinned. “I certainly hope so. Puckering the Dark Wizard’s arse is one of my chief amusements.” She stomped around a bit to test the boots. “Glonoff will expect us to try for the Arkell Pass, so he’ll search northward first. With any luck, we’ll have a few day’s head start before he realizes his mistake.”
“With the gods’ help, our luck will hold.”
She snorted. “The gods have never favored me.”
A buzzing sound drew her attention to the stone in the clearing.
Mauric swore and drew his sword. “I smell magic.”
“Aye.” With a rumbling growl, Gertie grasped her wizard stone and stepped in front of him. “Get behind me.”
“Nay. It’s my job to protect you.”
“You’re a sweet boy, Mauric. Funny, but sweet. Now do as you’re told.”
“No.”
They were still arguing when a yawning crack opened over the altar and a clump of rags and a red-haired man tumbled out. The gaping hole above the stone closed with a resounding clang, and the man groaned and sat up.
“Bree?” Gertie stared at him in surprise. “What brings you here?”
“Wonderful,” Mauric said, lowering his sword. “Just what we needed—another trodyn wizard.”
Chapter 3
News from Afar
The rustle of leathery wings woke Raven. Folding his arms behind his head, he watched the bat flutter about the shadowy room. The tiny creature smacked into a marble column and tumbled onto a low divan. With a flash of light, the bat vanished and a pale, willowy woman appeared on the cushioned couch.
Raven knew her at once, though her slender neck was bowed, and her delicate features were concealed behind a curtain of dark hair. He sat up, tugging the sheet around his waist to cover his nakedness. A luscious beauty sprawled on either side of him, and the corners of his mouth curved in an amused smile. His nocturnal visitor was a notorious prude, and she rarely left Shadow Mount, where she was cloistered within the Circle of Seers. Though it had been years since their last visit, he had no doubt she would condemn his amorous pursuits.
The woman on the divan shoved her long hair out of her face, exposing the ruin of her once-lovely eyes.
Raven’s enjoyment vanished in an instant, and he sprang from the bed with a curse. “Glory, what happened to you?”
The voluptuous redhead in the bed stirred at the sound of his voice and sat up, her expression petulant. “Come back to bed, lord. Shamira and I grow cold.”
Glory stiffened. “Two women, nephew? You are a prince of Finlara. Your responsibilities to king and countr
y do not include plowing your way through Akbree Kabal’s harem.”
“I know my duty, aunt. But as it happens, I am in Esmalla on business of my own, not my father’s.” Crossing to the divan, Raven bent to examine her injuries. “Furthermore, I do not bed Kabal’s women. I like my head where it is, thank you.” Paying no heed to her protests, he checked her for other hurts. Aside from a few bruises on her pale skin, there were none. “Who did this?”
She pushed his hands away. “Not in front of them.”
“Very well.” Kissing her cheek, he straightened and regarded the wenches in his bed with a cold eye. “Leave us.”
Shamira shot him a dirty look and the redhead—what was her name?—looked sullen. Grabbing their gowns, they scurried from the room, leaving him in no doubt of their resentment.
No matter. In his experience, women, with few exceptions, were interchangeable, their lovely faces and inviting bodies a blur of smooth limbs and soft breasts in his memory.
He slid into a pair of leather breeches without bothering to light a lamp. The darkness did not hamper his vision and his aunt was blind.
Blind; the thought of the anguish Glory must have suffered filled him with rage. The perpetrator of this savagery would pay and dearly.
But first to see to her comfort. Stripping the rumpled sheets from the bed, he spread a clean blanket over the mattress. Ignoring Glory’s protests, he carried her from the divan and laid her on the bed. He fetched a basin and a clean cloth and wiped her face, avoiding her sightless eyes. Taking a seat on the side of the bed, he held a cup of wine to her lips.
Once she had drunk her fill, he placed the goblet on the floor and took her hands in his. “Now, tell me. Who is the brute who maimed you?”
“I will tell you anon, but first I have dreadful news.” She clasped his hands. “The Eye has been stolen.”
Shock rendered Raven momentarily speechless. The Eye stolen?
“Gods,” he said, his mind reeling at the implications. “Does Glonoff have it?”
“Not as yet, but he is looking for it, of that you can be sure.”
A Meddle of Wizards Page 2